distance
by desolation
Summary: Repost. A chance encounter, five years after the end of the manga. Implied shounen ai.


Title: distance

Author: desolation PG-13

Warnings: Angst, shounen-ai implied.

Disclaimer: desolation owns neither Pet Shop of Horrors nor the lyrics to Richard Thompson's "Keep Your Distance". She doesn't own the Andrex puppy either, in case anyone was wondering.

Author's note: Re-uploaded, thanks to silliness. Thanks to Mouse, and raison d'etat for helping keep in check my incorrigible Britishness. :o)

* * *

Another anonymous morning, same as all the others. Woke up, blinked at the brightness of another too-real dawn for a few minutes, then finally crawled from under the covers and stumbled out the door to face the unfamiliar city. 

He'd never really been able to settle in one place, not since -- well, not since all that… stuff happened.

And now he was sitting in this café. He'd found himself ordering green tea with his breakfast without even thinking about it, again. It didn't happen quite so much these days, but still always managed to annoy him faintly. Still, he guessed it wasn't so bad -- at least, when you got used to the funny taste and it wasn't thick as treacle with fifteen sugars or whatever…

Leon screwed his eyes shut and forced himself to stop thinking. He wasn't going to think about any of that stuff, he didn't _want_ to, and he didn't have time, anyway. He was in another new city, and he didn't have a job yet, and he really needed to think about that right now, not let himself get carried away and stressed out remembering any of -- _that_.

Yeah. That was what he'd do. He'd finish his food, then go start job-hunting. Then maybe he'd try to find a cyber-café and email Jill. He still did, sometimes. She always sounded pleased to hear from him these days. That was good. For a while, after he'd left LA, he'd gotten the feeling she hadn't quite forgiven him for something. He wasn't _really_ sure what, but he had kind of an idea. Not telling her, he guessed. Not telling her what, exactly… Well, there hadn't been much to tell. Not really. Still, he had pretty much upped and moved out the city without warning or reason. In retrospect, he could see how that would have seemed a little… off.

And this was all beside the point, he told himself sternly. He had things to do.

He took a deep breath, and was about to open his eyes, and the incense-scented air caught in his throat.

Jesus _fuck_. That smell. He'd never noticed it anywhere other than the pet shop, hadn't smelled it in, what, five years? -- and it was a sudden, breath-stealing jolt. Though, now he thought about it, it was just incense. It wasn't so impossible that some random café would be burning the same kind.

It was just --

Just that he suddenly felt like his heart had flipped over and landed in his stomach, and it smelled more like _home_ than any of the sterile, stubbornly personality-free bedsits he'd inhabited since the pet shop disappeared. And, with the dim light and the taste of tea, if he just kept his eyes closed he almost felt like he was back there, could as good as _see_ it, felt as though at any moment a snarling bundle of fur was going to launch itself at his ankles, and then he'd hear the soft clink of china, and a low, not-quite-mocking voice would say --

"Good morning, Detective."

Leon's heart stopped doing acrobatics and froze dead still in his chest. One agonizing second passed, then another.

"Detective?"

He shook his head. This wasn't happening. It was just his imagination being particularly cruel. It did that sometimes, in dreams, in unguarded moments. Only he could _hear_ the rustle of silk, he was almost sure, and it was close to him, and through lowered lids he could kind of see a shadow thrown across him, like a figure, another person leaning across the table or --

He opened his eyes. And standing before him, doll-delicate and as perfect in every detail as Leon remembered, and casting a real shadow, solid as the table he was sitting at, was Count D.

Leon's mouth dropped open, and stayed there for a good ten seconds. D held his gaze, his eyes level, his expression indecipherable. Then Leon remembered he was gawping and thought he probably ought to say something. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling incredibly dry. Then he tried again.

"Um -- uh -- What are you…? I mean, ah, hi."

Eloquent as ever. Jesus. Fucking great. _Hi._ He'd imagined this scenario hundreds -- no, _thousands_ -- of times in the five years since D disappeared, dreamed about it and woken up furiously refusing tears, gone over and over it in his head in every possible setting, thought out all the right things to say, or at least the right curse words to fling – and the best he could manage was _hi_!

The tiniest hint of a smile. "Hello, Detective." A slight pause. "May I sit down?"

"Ah -- Yeah. Sure. I guess."

By the time Leon got to "I guess", D had already arranged himself gracefully on the chair opposite, hands folded before him. His fingernails gleamed the very shade of pearly white Leon remembered from the days of the pet shop -- remembered them glittering dully in lamplight, remembered being hypnotised by the movements of those slender hands pouring tea, and setting out china and silver and cakes with an artist's precision. And the skin barely a shade less pale, so white it almost glowed, weirdly, hypnotically bright and making all else fade to grey around it. His robe was white today, too, and embroidered in deepest red with a scattering of flowers. All that paleness, all that gleaming white -- and then the perfect contrast of perfect dark hair and lips hovering just on the edge of a smile, and _those_ eyes. Christ, those eyes. Deep and cool as gemstones and cutting effortlessly across time as though it were only yesterday Leon had last seen him -- and as though Leon hadn't spent the intermediate years wandering and thinking and puzzling and then trying not to think. Because right now he had even less idea what to say than he would have done five years ago.

D's right eye -- the icy, catlike gold one -- glittered at him from under a curtain of dark hair. Suddenly, irresistibly, Leon found himself fighting the urge to reach over and push it out of his face, force him to meet Leon's eyes straight on -- just like he'd wanted to in the old days, near the end. He'd even wondered, a couple of times, what that would feel like. Would D's hair be as smooth as it looked? As soft? Would it slip through his fingers like liquid? Would -- ?

Then he'd usually find himself having to stop and think about something else. Like how stupid that haircut was in the first place. How the hell did D put up with having hair in his face all the time like that? How did he even _see_?

The violet eye was unfathomable, gave away nothing. Never had, though.

D stayed silent a moment, like he was waiting for Leon to say something. Leon didn't. Couldn't. What the hell was he supposed to say, anyway? He was bad enough at dealing with ex-girlfriends he hadn't seen for a couple of years, never mind immortal beings he'd last seen taking boat rides to the moon. And it wasn't like the daily papers ran advice columns on it.

"I do hope you are well, Detective?" D asked finally, a little more than a hint of amusement in his tone now.

So he was still good for entertainment. The thought wasn't without bitterness. Leon winced a little as he imagined the ridiculous picture he must be presenting -- still stupid and lost for words after five years. Five _fucking_ years.

"I'm not a goddamn detective anymore, okay? So will you _please_ stop calling me that?" The words, like most things Leon said, were out of his mouth before he had time to think them through, and it surprised him how savage they sounded. D looked a bit taken aback too. Or at least, he blinked, and his expression went momentarily blank.

Then the smile was back in place. "I beg your pardon… Mr Orcot," he murmured.

"Ah, don't worry about it. It's okay," Leon replied, suddenly -- and much to his chagrin -- feeling kind of guilty. He paused, then grudgingly added "Sorry."

D's eyebrows shot up -- like he couldn't quite believe he'd just gotten an apology, Leon thought sourly. Jesus. He'd never been _that_ bad -- had he? Leon didn't have time to pursue the thought, however, because -- for once -- D seemed willing to let it drop.

"Might I be so bold as to ask -- what happened?"

Ah, shit. Leon knew he should have been dreading that question, not to mention the inevitable temptation to snap back with something that really, _really_ wasn't nice. He inhaled deeply.

"Excuse me -- are you ready to order, sir?"

Leon blinked up at the waitress, then realised she'd been addressing D. Not that the interruption was unwelcome. The time it took for D to order one cup of tea with extra sugar ("In fact, perhaps you'd be so kind as to bring over the sugar bowl?") was at least long enough to bite back most of the nastier thoughts in his head, if not to work out exactly how he'd tell D that he'd moved out of LA just a couple of weeks after waking up in the hospital, and why. If there was a why. Because he hadn't really thought about it, he'd just _had_ to. Because --

"I guess I just got… sick of L.A.," he said, eventually. "Wanted a change of scene."

"So -- you have travelled?"

"Yeah, a little." Leon seized on the subject gratefully. "I even went to London once, actually. Jesus, those English people are weird. Hell, some of them are probably even crazier than _you_…"

* * *

"Shit!" Leon looked at his watch in amazement. "How the hell did it get this late?" 

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry, De -- Leon." D's eyes sparkled at him over the rim of his third cup of tea. There was a small plate before him on the table, though a few stray smears of chocolate were all that remained of what had once been a slice of cake. Leon almost thought he'd have licked those off, too, if there hadn't been anyone watching. "I did not mean to… distract you."

Leon shrugged. "Never mind. 'S not like I've got anything _that_ important to do."

Which was fortunate, since he'd managed to waste the last two hours or so talking to D about… well, nothing much, really. And D, for once, had seemed pretty content to just sit and listen, a small smile on his lips, offering the occasional noise of encouragement or acid observation. One other thing was weird, too. For most of the time they'd been talking, Leon hadn't gotten the feeling that D had been laughing at him. It was vaguely disconcerting, but kind of… nice, too. It felt like those few times back in L.A. when D had just been genuinely, openly kind to him, and with every minute that passed that time seemed less far away, somehow, the distance between them perceptibly smaller.

Then something occurred to Leon.

"Hey," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You still haven't told me what the hell _you_'re doing here." He just managed to avoid adding, _Since you flew off to the moon on that goddamn ship thing_. Which was a good thing, since D being here meant that that evidently _had_ been a dream, right?

It looked like D had been expecting the question. He just smiled patiently and said; "Ah, of course. Please do excuse my rudeness. I am on business here. For my grandfather."

"Right." Leon bit his lip, something like the old suspicion suddenly catching at him. Because it felt faintly surreal to be sitting here, chatting to D so calmly, like he was any other old friend Leon hadn't seen for a couple of years. And that, of course, was because D had never been _quite_ a… friend. Not really. He'd been something else, something not quite definable.

"So… you still run the pet shop, then?"

"My grandfather is overseeing the running of the shop, at the moment. I am… dealing with a few small business matters for him. Running errands, one might say."

One might say. Well, yeah. One might say a lot of things about D, but --

But now, suddenly, his eyes brightened. The corners of his mouth curved upwards and he leaned towards Leon, his voice low, gentle.

"In fact, I may be in the city some time. Perhaps if -- "

The sudden, light pressure of his hands on Leon's -- the silken coolness of his skin -- was unexpected, and Leon had snatched his hands away before he had time to think about what he was doing.

They stared at each other for a second, and Leon felt suddenly, inexplicably breathless. D's eyes had gone wide, and in the poorly-lit café it looked like his cheeks were flushed faintly red. He blinked.

It wasn't like this was anything particularly new. Back in the old days, at the pet shop, D had often touched Leon, clasped his hands -- hell, even thrown himself into his arms, once -- and Leon had always pulled away just as quickly. He'd never really stopped to think about whether it had been from nervousness, or fear, or what. It had just been part of the elaborate game they'd played, the game that Leon never really knew the rules of but for some reason always felt like he'd staked his immortal soul on.

D was looking a little more surprised -- a little more, if such a thing was possible, _hurt_ -- than he ever had back then, but Leon was trying not to think about that. Because that single touch had been the step-too-far Leon needed. It had reminded him just what that game had been like -- reminded him that, by the end, he hadn't just been fascinated by D. He'd wanted. He'd _needed_. Hell, perhaps he'd even come somewhere near working out just what it was they were playing for.

And he couldn't go back. Not now. No way.

Because -- he realised now -- it hadn't been just the fact D was here that had been making him feel so weirded-out. It had been the way they'd slipped so easily back into the old routine, himself blustering and stammering before that serene smile, and then, when it didn't change, letting himself trust it. _Stupidly_. Back under the spell.

He had to stay away from that. Had to.

Damn ironic, really. Somehow, in the back of his mind, even though he never quite admitted it, he'd spent these past five years certain it was D he was looking for. And now he'd found him, he couldn't. Just couldn't go back to that -- all that teasing, all those half-hopes and stolen glances. It had to be all, or not at all. Not like that.

Suddenly D's presence close to him -- the clinging smell of incense, the whispers of his silk, the strange, unearthly quality all light seemed to gain when it touched him -- was more than Leon could stand.

D was still looking at him. Leon glanced down at his hands, finally clasped them firmly together and placed them in his lap.

"D… do you really think that's a -- good idea?" he said, at last, and cringed inwardly. Shit. He sounded like someone's grandma.

D blinked a few times, rapidly. He glanced down for a moment.

"Perhaps not." His voice was barely above a whisper, but then when he looked up the blank, unreadable expression was back. "Please do forgive me, Leon. I presumed -- "

"It's okay -- " Leon stopped, conscious of how pathetic his voice sounded. It wasn't okay, and he wasn't so much clutching at straws as shreds of cobweb.

D folded his hands again, and stood quickly, gracefully.

"I think it is perhaps best I leave now." Leon opened his mouth as if to protest, but D silenced him with an upheld hand. "However, should you ever need my help -- that is, should you ever wish to contact me -- you will be able to. I will make sure of it." The inscrutable little smile again. Leon blinked at the seeming disconnectedness of the statement, stared before him in bemusement for a minute.

Then he cleared his throat. "Hey, D! Wait!"

It was too late then, and D was already gone. Quicker than air. Leon saw the café door swing closed, and then -- perhaps -- a slender, white-clad figure fading into the crowd.

Shit. Well, that had gone about as well as a pissup in a Methodist church. Great. Just great. Leon Orcot, professional fucker-up. He scowled, and glanced down at the table, and the scowl turned into a frown. There was something on it. It was a -- He picked it up. A flower. A withered, blood-red flower, a bit like the ones D had had embroidered on his outfit.

Now he thought about it, those had looked kind of familiar, too. They'd been like… the ones on that freaky plant D had given him once, just before the first time he got shot. Gattolotto. Remembering that, Leon felt a faint pang. Everything had been pretty hazy after he woke up in the hospital, but there was one image he'd never been able to shake – that of D sitting over him, a calm smile on his lips, but in his eyes the faintest hint of something that looked very, very much like relief.

Leon squinted at the shrivelled thing in his hand, held it up to the light. Yeah, it was just the same. That was weird.

* * *

Leon rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was pretty sure his flight was gonna be delayed, which meant another hour or two waiting around, but he was out of cigarettes and he didn't feel like coffee. 

He'd thought about moving on pretty soon after the conversation with D. D had said he was gonna be in the city for a while, and -- well, he knew it was stupid, but Leon just didn't want to risk another chance meeting. Where he was gonna go now was still a matter of debate. He figured he'd head to New York, see Chris – his aunt and uncle would probably let him crash at their place for a night or two – spend a couple of days sorting his head out, then set off again.

Leon sighed. Whenever he'd thought about seeing D again, he'd always kind of imagined it resolving something. Even if it hurt, even if it left him hating D's guts and _wanting_ never to see him again… well, at least then he'd know what he wanted. As it stood, the only damn thing he knew was what he _didn't_ want. He'd never let himself think about it too much, but somewhere, in the back of his mind, he'd always assumed that if he could just _see_ D again – if he could just sit there, swallowing foul-tasting tea and seeing D just nod and smile serenely when he complained about stuff – that would be enough. And he'd been so close. He'd almost _touched_ that, goddammit – and it hadn't been enough. _All or not at all_. He was pretty sure he'd meant that at the time – and for once, he'd probably been right. Damn well had to stick with it now, anyway, or else he was well and truly screwed.

It was just that he couldn't help this feeling that something was wrong, wrong, _wrong._ _All or not at all_, he'd thought, and it looked like he'd gotten one of those things now, and it still didn't feel right. Was it really meant to be like this? End like this? Was this _it_?

Leon shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, then frowned as the right one connected with something he'd forgotten was there. He took it out, held it in the palm of his hand and looked at it. It was that little dried flower he'd found on the table, just after D had left. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it, really. Some kind of weird, superstitious nostalgia, maybe. Like he'd manage to keep something, to have not lost D again so completely, by holding on to this little piece of dried-up vegetable matter.

He probably ought to throw it out. He'd been trying not to think about D, after all. Trying not to think about the strange, hurt expression that had flashed across his eyes for a fraction of a fraction of a second when Leon pulled his hands away, or how soft and little his voice had been when he'd said, _Please do forgive me_. And then, _I will make sure of it_. Leon still hadn't worked out what that one meant.

Well, big surprise there. This was _D_.

_No_. He wasn't, _wasn't_ going to think about D. Leon glanced round for a bin. He'd throw the damn thing out and forget about it. All _or not at all_, remember?

_Making a decision at last, Leon?_

Leon started. He blinked, looked round, then shook his head. He must be hearing things. Fucking weird things, too. That voice – he glanced behind him again, because it had sounded so close, so _real_ – had been D's, for sure. And that was just like something D would say – at least, the D Leon had been used to. It was just – it hadn't really sounded as ironic, as mocking, as D always did. It was more like sad. Uncertain. The way he'd sounded the other day.

There was definitely no-one there, though. A final, suspicious glower round the airport lounge, then something occurred to Leon. He frowned down at the shrivelled flower he was holding, and unfolded his hand. It settled innocently in the middle of his palm.

Nah. This was ridiculous. He was imagining things.

_Ah. Then perhaps not._ And a slight sound that was something like a sigh.

Fucking hell. This was getting beyond stupid. And Leon didn't have time to think beyond that, because then the tannoy spluttered into life.

"Now boarding for flight 326 to New York. Passengers for New York are asked to take their seats."

Ah, shit. That was his flight – and he'd been so preoccupied he'd almost missed the announcement. Leon scowled at the red flower in his hand. He really needed to just chuck this and _fucking_ stop thinking about it. Hearing voices. Jesus. He'd be telling himself fish could talk next.

Leon was on his feet and halfway across the terminal before he heard the voice in his head again – soft, barely above a whisper, and yet more distinct than anything else in the noisy airport. This time it made him freeze dead still.

_Very well, my dear Leon._

He blinked, realised a couple of people were giving him odd looks and glared back at them. Then forgot about it, because the voice was speaking again, less sad now, more sure of… something.

'_All or not at all' it shall be._

And then there was a little of the old confidence in it, a tiny brightness, a hint of tease.

_It is, as they say, your move._

_

* * *

_  
Sharing love is sharing C&C. Go on, make a little author happy.

This story was inspired by Richard Thompson's wonderful "Keep Your Distance", lyrics to which can be found here (just remove the spaces): w w w . l y r i c s d o w n l o a d . c o m / t h o m p s o n - r i c h a r d - k e e p - y o u r - d i s t a n c e - l y r i c s . h t m l


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